


Deux Ames

by new_jeans



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Freeform, Historical Hetalia, Matched with some angst, Mentions of Sex, Some Fluff, Still not entirely sure what that means, but these are meant to be somewhat short and poetic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/new_jeans/pseuds/new_jeans
Summary: "Two Souls"The Franco-Russian Dual Alliance of 1894 brought them together. They find solace in each other despite their many differences and cast them off as unlikely lovers.
Relationships: Female France/Female Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 7





	Deux Ames

**Author's Note:**

> i might come back to add some specificity (and heck, more chapters and ideas) but for now i just wanted to get something out there.  
> and to draw attention to this lovely ship :)

_Russia, January 1894_

“In addition to paying for all these trains and such,” France clutched Russia’s cold, white hand. “I must buy you some gloves.”  
They both knew perfectly well of the stupidity of France’s offer. Russia could create (and had created) thousands upon thousands of gloves herself. They each could conjure the best cuisine delights their respective countries could offer, sew gowns from scratch, and every tactile metier in between. Despite the industries and mechanization filling France, she could easily revert to more medieval habits, and a small, ancient part of her wished that she could. Russia wasn’t so sure anymore, with everything France gave her. 

* * *

Russia has a sturdy build, which hasn’t reflected her prestige as a superpower in years, but rather the expanse of her empire. But soon France can admire her taut form with the knowledge that it was her merciful and desperate hands that gave her such power. 

Whether presenting as male or female, Russia appears strong and ruthless. However, she melts on occasion, and, like all the others, her bones can snap if someone wills them to. 

France is like a rose, dainty and fresh, but her thorns are made visible and sharp on the battlefield.

* * *

France, embraced by heat (that of an ally! finally!) and sobs about the events that transpired in her heart roughly twenty years ago. Those which scarred her deeply before the next tragedy comes of age.

* * *

These two souls visit an old estate, one that was shown mercy. Naturally pillaged of most of its shining accouterments, everything that could be carried was gone. They left the piano untouched, as well as the sofas and beds. They did not try to burn it. they, of course, meaning a million voices and lives that pounded in Russia's head. 

And they run across the acres and acres of the estate, exhaling clouds of breath in the frail air. As if they have something to escape from, as if they have something to escape to.

They clutch at each other’s arms. Swift boots that crush dry grass in their wake. 

While in theory, this great empire should feel immune to the cold, but this isn’t the case. She is limited by her people, the mortals she is forced to feel. Her fingers are like icicles, and France takes them in her warm throat. but this is nothing compared to France, whose hands sometimes shake so fiercely that she can’t undo a single button. 

So then they sit in front of a fire, exchanging glances with the other and the flames. 

There are times when France looks over with sad, looming eyes, and Russia can’t help but respond with a kiss and undress her right there. Her sympathy swells seeing understanding eyes like that. She wants to cry, but she buries it beneath moans. 

They sigh and breathe in great tumbling waves

similar to the rocking of their hips

moonlight shading blankets where underneath wriggling bodies slide

chill air soars in from the balcony, welcomed by its fenestrated doors, opening into the bedroom. 

They don’t care. no one is around to hear their cries anyway. 

like the vastness of space, but she’s not there yet. 

They’ve long since gotten used to bitter cold, especially the woman groaning with her silver hair, damp at the hairline, pressed against the pillows. 

Speaking of this woman, while her head tosses and turns, she feels the money. It courses through her veins, pumped in as we speak

Startling and a savior and a friend, both new and old, as she whispers in French. 

It makes her perspire like never before. 


End file.
